fish out of water
by humanveil
Summary: When he thinks of home, he thinks of England. He thinks of his mother and his mates and the life he'd left behind. Or rather: he does. And then he doesn't. It's not hard to pinpoint why. / James character study.


**Characters:** James-centric; all the girls in cluded.

**Word Count:** 3855

**Tags/Warnings:** Found Family, 5+1 Things, Child Neglect

**Summary:** When he thinks of home, he thinks of England. He thinks of his mother and his mates and the life he'd left behind. Or rather: he does. And then he doesn't. It's not hard to pinpoint why.

* * *

**one.**

When James thinks of his earliest memories, he thinks mostly in snippets: unconnected images of mundane things, flashes of experiences he barely remembers, stuff he'd done so often the memories of it had morphed into a singular picture that lacked specifics. A walk through the park, his first time in a swimming pool, the flicker of a flame at a birthday party, running in the rain and jumping from puddle to puddle, colour blended together as he flicked through the pages of a book. There's one that sticks out the most, in emotions if not detail. Six years old and standing at his mother's side as she cooed over dresses and blouses and glittering, gold jewellery, bored out of his mind as his gaze trailed across the room and then out of it, the toy store across from them catching his eye and keeping it. He hadn't meant to get lost, exactly, but his mother hadn't noticed as he slipped away from her legs, and she certainly hadn't seen him escape the store and make his way through the crowd, little hands reaching for the oversized plush bear that marked the entrance of the toy shop. He'd been too preoccupied to notice his mother exiting her store, and Cathy certainly hadn't seemed to realise he wasn't following her.

Two hours he'd stayed there. It's how long it'd taken to find him, and even then, it was his step-dad who'd pulled his mum along, looking at her and pointing at James as if to say, _see?_ "There you are," he'd announced, relieved, and his mother had spun some nonsense about losing track of time as she took his hand and pulled him along to the next shop, all the while promising that they'd stop for ice cream later; never an outright _sorry_ but something just as good.

It's clouded by relief, that part. The way he'd taken his mother's hand and smiled as she made another quick stop at some shop he can't recall the name of. But before that, he remembers the feeling of horror. The way the excitement at his newfound independence and adrenaline from his rule-breaking had slowly morphed into apprehension and then, eventually, fear. There'd been a sinking feeling in his stomach, a worry that his mother had forgotten all about him and that he was going to be left at the mall forever, destined to live in the stores and forced to steal just to survive.

He feels a bit like that now, as he lies in his borrowed bed at his Aunt Deirdre's place, his mother already on her way back to London.

_Without_ him.

He doesn't know what to do. Can't fathom how he's supposed to be feeling, how he's supposed to react. He'd wanted to cry in the car, could feel the lump in his throat and the burn to his eye, but his Aunt would have none of it and he knows that, so he'd curled his hands into fists instead and focused on the dull ache where his nails broke the skin and willed himself to simply breathe. It'd sort of worked. At least for a bit.

Michelle, for her part, seems to be handling it with her usual grace.

"Listen, ball-ache," she says, standing in the doorway to the guest room. Now _his_ room, James supposes. He has nowhere else to go. "Quit crying about it, will ya? You're making the whole house depresso."

They haven't been home for long; had been chewed out in the car on the way here, his Aunt Deirdre going on about lipsticks and pissy buckets and _wait until your father hears about this._ James had been rather shit-scared, if he's honest, but Michelle hadn't seemed too bothered. The thought is only slightly comforting.

Now, James rolls his eyes. It's more tired than anything else, though. His jaw is clenched, a sigh pressing at his teeth, but despite what his cousin says, he _hasn't_ been crying about it. If anything, he's been sitting in a numb silence: upset and disappointed but, somehow, not entirely surprised. It's that which hurts more than anything else.

"Piss off, Michelle," he manages. It sounds pathetic to his own ears, none of the usual zeal to it, and he's not the least bit surprised when Michelle ignores him.

She steps past the threshold and into his room, shutting the door behind her even though they've been ordered to different rooms without dinner. He doesn't get it, the way she's so quick to disregard authority. His mum's never yelled at him the way he's seen Deirdre do Michelle, but even then, he's always listened to her.

For all the good it did him.

"I'm serious," Michelle says. "Who needs her? She was a bloody prick, anyway."

_"Michelle!"_

He's glaring, eyes narrowed and lips thinned, but his outburst is more reflex than genuine offence; the need to stick up for his mum something that's ingrained in him because, well. She's his _mum_. Michelle calls everyone a prick, anyway, he thinks. It shouldn't matter.

His cousin rolls her eyes, and James pretends not to notice as he tries not to do the same. It's tense, this. For all that they're related, he and Michelle don't actually know each other very well. His mother had never been keen on their relatives back in Derry, and James has never known what kind of questions to ask.

After a moment, Michelle sighs, loud and long and with her head thrown back, cheeks puffed until all the air escapes her. She steps further into the room and settles on the edge of his bed, one hand reaching inside her jacket pocket. "Here, dicko," she says, a small packet of _something_ chucked at his head. He ducks sideways so it doesn't hit his face, only _just_ manages to catch it.

His forehead furrows as he sees the packet of crisps, eyes meeting Michelle's as he asks, "What's this?"

"Dinner," she tells him, lips quirking into a small, secretive smirk. "I've got a stash."

She looks away, then, reaching to pluck her own packet from her pocket. They pull open with a soft _pop_ and Michelle drops one into her mouth as she changes the topic to something stupid she and Erin had done two summers ago, and if James hadn't known better, he'd say she was trying to _comfort_ him.

* * *

**two.**

James is standing in the Quinns' kitchen when he hears the murmurs for the first time, Grandpa Joe's voice travelling through from the next room, barely audible over Orla's running commentary with her Ma.

"That's that, then," Joe is saying, voice pitched low and serious. "The wee English fella. He's here for good?"

James stills, body going tense. There's a dish in his hands, plain and white and chipped at the underside of an edge, and his finger smooths over the dent as he strains to listen. Tries to decipher the conversation even as Orla tells Sarah all about the updated dress code at school. He catches Mary's voice, in the same low tone her father's had been, and this time, he recognises it for what it is: sympathy.

Just like that, his blood runs cold.

"'s what Deirdre's been saying," is Mary's answer, and it's as if James' chest drops three floors, heart in the pit of his stomach as Mary continues. "I believe her, if I'm to be honest. You know Cathy was never the maternal ty—"

"Isn't that right, James?"

He snaps out of his trance at the sound of Orla's voice, and turns to find her looking at him expectantly. As the voices from the other room fade, all James can manage is a rather dumb-sounding, "What?"

"The new dress code," Orla tells him, like it should've been obvious. "They won't let you wear the skirt, will they? It's a tragedy, Mammy."

James' brow furrows as he plays catch up. It's true that there's been some changes since his transfer to Our Lady Immaculate College, but he doesn't think this is the one to be hung up on. He certainly doesn't understand Orla's fascination with it. "I don't actually want to wear the skirt, Orla," he says, for what has to be the fifth time, but he may as well have not bothered. They don't listen.

"Aye, but you would look cracker in a skirt, love," says Sarah, bringing a cigarette to her lips, and James can't help but stare a little, face twisted with bewilderment. He hasn't been around Sarah much, but it's already obvious she's where Orla gets her… well. _Orla-ness_ from. In a weird way, they make him miss his own mum.

"Uh… thanks?" he tries after a pause, and Sarah nods at him with a smile, turning back to Orla with a new story she'd heard from someone James doesn't know.

He watches a moment more before shaking his head and turning back to the dishes. He attempts to listen out for any other conversations he may or may not be the topic of, but the next room seems to have emptied out. He knows it has a moment later, when Gerry emerges from the hall with a nod and a soft, _Right. _

"I'll take that," he says, grabbing both the plate and the tea towel from James' hands. He smiles, pure politeness, and yet James can't help but see pity in it, too. "You go on and enjoy yourself, son."

James doesn't react right away. He can't shake the feeling that everyone in the house feels sorry for him; that they're all only being nice because he's just been abandoned by his mum in a place that seems designed to confuse him. It suffocates him for a moment, heavy and thick and, in his mind, _true_, and he feels like he might choke on it until Michelle's voice comes calling from up the stairs, Erin and Clare's joining a moment later, the three of them mixing together until the words are indiscernible and all James can make out is something about a song.

He follows the beckon, Orla joining him on the steps and taking his hand in hers as she races to see what all the commotion's about. James supposes it doesn't really matter what they want, anyway.

He just wants the distraction.

* * *

**three.**

The badges sit in his bedside draw for nine days, rainbows half-covered by the copy of _Moby Dick_ he'd borrowed from Clare. Uncle Martin had taken him to Killybegs for a week early on in the summer, muttering on about how he was going to teach James to fish and _man him up a bit. _It'd been an absolute fucking nightmare, so much so that they'd cut the trip short a week, but they'd stopped at a little corner store on the way back to Derry, and the bright colours had caught James' eye. The pins came in sets of two, and so he'd grabbed three without thinking and purchased them while Martin was looking the other way, shoving the bag into his pocket quickly before his uncle could start with any questions on his supposed _gay thing. _

Now, the three packets sit on the Quinns' kitchen table, James' fingers nervously tapping the wooden surface as four sets of eyes stare at him. "I thought we could… you know…" He shrugs, can feel his face heating under the girls' gazes. Knows his cheeks must be turning an embarrassingly bright red. "…wear them," he finishes lamely. Dead silence follows, and then—

"What," Michelle says, looking between the group with a not-quite laugh, "like fucken friendship bracelets?"

She's taking the piss out of him, _obviously, _and James shouldn't be surprised, but he still sort of is. "I just thought it'd be nice to show some support," he says, sighing, eyes shutting momentarily as regret and embarrassment swallow him whole. "You know, with Clare and… everything."

When he looks back up, he sees Orla reaching for a packet, a grin on her face as she plucks a badge free and brings the sharp end of the pin dangerously close to her eye. Erin reaches to pull her arm back, grumbling under her breath, but then she turns to James and smiles.

"I think it's a brilliant idea," she says, all resolve. She reaches for the second badge in Orla's pack, and James offers a weak smile.

"Aye, these are cracker, James," Orla adds, patting her chest where she's already pinned the badge onto her shirt. The colours shine under the kitchen light, silver outline sparkling, and James' smile widens. "Who gets the spare?"

James shrugs again. He'd needed to buy three packets so they could all have one, but… "I thought Clare could have two," he admits, turning to Clare as he says it. He falters for a moment when he sees her staring at the table, unmoving. His smile falls, worry twisting in his gut as he panics that he's crossed some sort of line. "Clare?" he asks tentatively, and her gaze snaps up. His panic only worsens when he sees the sheen to her eyes, the tell-tale sign of tears easy for James to spot, but then Clare beams up at him, big and bright, and James' insides warm again.

"You got these for me?" she asks, voice coloured with disbelief. She reaches to take the second packet, looking between James and the pins as she unwraps them.

"Well, yeah," James says. He still feels a bit shy. This, it's not _just_ to show Clare support, although that is why he'd bought them. It'd only been after the purchase that he'd realised getting one for himself could come across as a bit presumptuous. For all that he's settled, there are days where he still questions his place in Derry. His place in their friendship group.

Clare is out of her seat, then, walking around to wrap an arm across James' shoulders and pull him into a hug. It's awkward, the position all wrong, their limbs digging into places they shouldn't be, but James doesn't push her away. "Thank you," she says, soft and sincere, and Orla makes a quiet _aww_ sound as he nods and hugs her back.

She steps back and fumbles with the pin, locking it onto the lapel of her denim jacket, and James reaches for the last packet. He puts his own one on as they all turn to look at Michelle, expectant.

"Oh, fuck me," she says, rolling her eyes. "Alright." She huffs and leans forward, taking the last one while acting as if it's a great sacrifice on her part, but James sees the way her mouth curls in a little smile as she pins the badge to her jacket, and he's sure all the other girls see it, too.

* * *

**four.**

He gets the call a quarter past seven, as he's sitting in the lounge room of the Mallon home and aimlessly flicking through channels as he waits for his Uncle Martin to finish work and drive him to the hotel for his so-called _Creep Convention_. His Aunt Deirdre is working nights again, and Michelle had left for the prom ages ago, so it's only James there to answer the phone.

"Hello?" he says, surprised when it's Mrs. Quinn's voice that crackles through the receiver.

"James, love," says Mary. She talks in a rush and James can't help but picture her pacing the floor of the Quinns' hallway, hand held to her hairline as if perpetually stressed. "I know the wains said you had plans, but this John Paul fella… Erin said he'd be here at seven, and so far there's been no sign of him. If you ask me—"

"He didn't show?" He doesn't mean to interrupt, but he can't help it. Something like dread pools the pit of his stomach as he imagines Erin dressed in that teal atrocity, ready and waiting for something that won't happen, the excitement that's been there all week slowly draining out of her until she just looks _sad_. It's not a thought he likes in the least.

"No," Mary tells him. She sighs again, pauses as if she isn't sure how to phrase what she wants to say. "I was thinking… You and the girls, well. You're such good friends. And Erin really likes ya. And I thought maybe, if it's not too much trouble, you might consider going with her."

James blinks. He can see his suitcase from where he stands, packed and ready. He eyes it as he thinks of what Mary's asking. This convention, he's been looking forward to it for weeks; a throwback to his childhood as well as his life back in London. But when he thinks of Erin, of how upset he knows she'll be over this…

He must take too long to reply, because Mary starts talking again before he's even really made up his mind. "Ach, son," she says. "It's no pressure, really. It's just she's all dressed up, an—"

"I'll take her."

He says it without realising, but it's strong and sure and sounds like it's the right choice. There's a beat, and then Mary again.

"Really?"

James smiles. "Yeah." He nods to himself, looking down at his shirt and jeans. He feels suddenly nervous. "I. I'll have to get ready, but I'll get there as quick as I can."

He can practically hear Mary smile as another sigh, this time one of relief, comes through the receiver. "That's a good lad," she says. "I'll see you soon."

"Bye, Mrs. Quinn."

He writes a note to his Uncle Martin and spares his suitcase a regretful glance before taking the stairs two at a time. He has to dig through his closet for the suit his mum had bought him years ago, but he finds it and lays it out on his bed before turning to the shower and racing to get ready in as little time as possible.

His nerves only get worse as he walks the familiar path to the Quinns, his palms clammy when he lifts his hand to knock, but it all vanishes when Erin opens the door, signs of tears vanishing as she smiles at him, and James knows for sure that he'd made the right decision.

* * *

**five.**

Seeing his mum again after almost two years had felt a bit like a whirlwind, shock and surprise morphing to blind elation almost too quick to catch, but it's nothing compared to what the taxi ride out of Derry feels like.

His thoughts are still stuck on Michelle's speech, her words playing in his head as if on a loop. He'd thought it would be easy, telling the girls. He thinks it should have been easy. Derry isn't _home_. He's never thought of it as such, not really. It's more like a placeholder. A place he knows he was always going to leave, even if hadn't quite known the who, when, and how.

Except… well. Except, now that it's actually happening, it doesn't _feel _like he'd thought it would. Doesn't feel like he's leaving a placeholder, nor something that should be happening. If he's honest with himself, he thinks it feels a bit like what leaving London had felt like.

_You're one of us. _

He swallows around the lump in his throat and stares out the window, Derry's little houses and cobblestone pathways passing in a blur. It's emptier than usual, the entire town crowding the Guildhall and chanting for President Clinton to make his address. James glances sideways and catches a glimpse of his mother, gaze trained on her own reflection as she checks her makeup, as if nothing else in the world exists outside herself.

_She only thinks about herself, James. _

The taxi nears the _Welcome to Free Derry _sign and James tries to expel Michelle's voice from his head. It's annoying, really, except for the fact that it isn't. He _wants_ it to be annoying, wants to brush it off as if it doesn't matter, just another one of Michelle's nonsense jabs, but it's _not_ nonsense, and it hadn't been a jab, either. It'd been sincere—sincere in a way James has never seen Michelle, raw and emotional and _sad_, and that's the worst part of it all, James thinks. The way his heart had seemed to sink with the rest of them.

_She'll let you down again, you do realise that?_

"You'll be glad to get out of this dive, love," his mother says, fixing her hair, now. "I know I am."

James stares, blank, and turns back to the window; familiar horizon fading out of sight. His mother starts on about her business, then, telling the taxi driver all about her _self-adhesive labels. _She spares James a glance, smiling tightly: pleased but without any real warmth.

"Pretty boy like you," she says, patting his knee. "You'll do wonders for my advertising."

He smiles back, but it's forced and fake and barely passable. His mother doesn't seem to notice and it feels like a punch to the gut, not just because Michelle's voice is still in his head, snapping that all Cathy wants is his free labour, but also because his own weariness is coming back. The bad memories he'd managed to hide beneath his idolised ones rising to the surface as he realises his mother hasn't changed at all since he'd last seen her.

It clicks, then. The _off_ feeling. Everything had happened too quick to really think it through, but as he sits in the taxi now, James realises that his mother's selfish love isn't really what he wants. Not now that he's experienced something different. Not now that he's made a home, here. A _family_.

His mother is still rambling, going on about some man she'd been to dinner with and all his promising ideas, and she's halfway through a, _you'll love him_, when James interrupts, the words blurted before he thinks to stop them.

"Turn around."

His mother snaps her head toward him. "What?"

Her eyebrows are furrowed, confusion twisting her features, and James swallows as he looks at his mother's face. _No going back_, he thinks. He doesn't even want to.

"I made a mistake," he says, twisting to see just how far out of Derry they are. "I don't want to leave. Turn around."

"We can't turn around, James. We're already o—"

"Then stop and let me out."

He's already apologising to the taxi driver, who slows the car with a quiet sigh and a disinterested look their way; waiting for his mother to make an order. Cathy looks at him too, surprised but, James can't help but notice, not really disappointed, either. It looks more like she's inconvenienced, like she thinks he's _wasting her time_. It's that which solidifies his choice, even as his heart breaks that much more. He knows he's doing the right thing.

"Drop him at the sign," Cathy says eventually, settling back in her seat, and it makes James smile: genuine, this time, the pull of his mouth lighting his whole face. His mother sighs but he doesn't care.

He's going home.

* * *

**\+ one.**

_"I. AM. A. DERRY. GIRL."_


End file.
